ScarlettScavenger

A Peach Pit and A Cold Heart

Book 1 - Monkey On Your Back Link Page Monkey On Your Back Playlist Book 2 - Hot Under The Collar Link Page Hot Under The Collar Playlist

Drabbles

OperaGhost!Simon

A Smooth Sea Never Made a Skilled Sailor ~A Smooth Sea Playlist

Hey Love Gymrat!Soap (Part One) Gymrat!Soap (Part Two)

Coming Back For Seconds (John Price/Reader)

Task Force 141 (Part One) Task Force 141 (Part Two) More Task Force 141 headcanons Task Force 141 headcanons (Part Four) Keegan P Russ Headcanons

Graves and Keegan kissing you

Early February 

If you ever listened to a single thing you were told to do, you wouldn’t have gotten anywhere at all. You’d still be a lonely wisp of a girl. A peach pit bobbing in tequila; silent but never truly seen. 

You’re certainly not going to start listening to Ghost—or anyone else for that matter. 

It’s not exactly in your wheelhouse. 

Not when you trail after Third and Rory toward that same little Borough Market stall with the croissant sandwiches he loves so much. Not when you crawl into a coat rack to avoid being spotted at a luxury designer’s brick and mortar you’d followed them into. Not when Rory catches you fleeing toward a little Italian bistro across the lane from a cigar lounge they’d just disappeared into then immediately came back out of as if their whims changed with the wind. 

“Isn’t that your friend?” 

Rory’s words slither over your skin, like the syllables are vipers in a den you’d stumbled into. 

Fuck. 

Of course that sick fuck would recognize you. 

Your hackles rise like a cornered mutt, shoulders locking and spine fused. Be cool. Just play it cool. You’ve skirted your way out of worse situations than this, right? Faced down death at the hands of a reaper. It’s not like he can take you. The tabloids would have a field day without their favorite fuck up. 

And that’s without even considering what Ghost would do. 

If he’d do anything, that is. 

“Hospitality? What’re you doing here?” 

Third’s playful lilt grates against your skin where you stand whirled around, as though giving him your back could save your identity. Despite the laughter in his tone, he sounds livid. 

You turn slowly—like a kill roasting over open flames—flick your gaze between them and grin as innocently as you can muster before they get the chance to lodge an apple between your teeth. Third looks about the same as always; donning a sea breeze blue polo, khakis, a cream-colored sweater tied loosely by the sleeves at his chest, and a matching newsboy hat. His Rolex glints on his wrist where his hand disappears into the pockets of his khakis, and his mouth is turned up on one side—maybe questioning, maybe amused. 

Or maybe seething under his skin because he knows now you hadn’t heeded his warning. 

And maybe calling you out was the last chance he’d give. 

Up close, Rory looks like a drowned rat. Gaunt, pale skin is accompanied by freckles that dust his cheeks and deep set, dark blue eyes track you for the first time with real awareness. The suit he’s wearing seems two sizes too big despite how much money he must make as an executive at the hotel. His hair is short, black, and so greasy it almost looks wet. There’s something almost eerie in the air that surrounds him, like the sunlight seems to fade around his edges. 

But you’re caught, shattered vase on the floor and all, so you lie—like you always seem to these days. 

“Oh—hey. I’m just looking for a gift for my friend.” 

The street is busy; groups passing by on the sidewalk before the cigar lounge, and their laughter drifts through the space between you. You shift on your feet, bounce your weight on your Louboutins. The way you say it—your friend—is intentional, like you’re trying to play into the last conversation you’d had. A half-baked excuse about your new toy liking cigars—does he? 

That’s something you’ll have to find out now. 

Or maybe you’ll just smoke it yourself. 

“A cigar? Your other gift wasn’t enough?” 

It’s almost a taunt, like he’s dangling you on a hook in front of a starving piranha. As though he’s trying to punish you for your indiscretion. Third’s way of saying ‘See? Do you really want to be caught out with this guy?’ 

Or it’s an out. 

He’s giving you the room to be the silly, airheaded heiress and slink away unscathed. 

“You’re right. I’ll just—” 

Before you can get out your little placating goodbye, Rory interrupts, slick as oil and twice as hard to clear out. His squared shoulders are loose when you’re used to seeing them taut in executive meetings, mellow where you expect tension. 

“We can help you pick something out, right Solomon? We’re not busy.” 

Static crackles under your skin; your spine tingles, blood crawling through your veins, but somehow your feet move when Third’s hand finds the small of your back. To put himself between you and Rory or as an anchor in the pending storm, you can’t be sure. Every step is a death knell, a funeral parade, as the cimmerian bar swallows you whole. 

Lyricless and slow, swanky jazz washes over you in a building wave; a rising tide. The whole place is warm, earth tones and aphotic ridges. Strips of recessed lighting behind the bar and delicate, sanguine-rich lamps glow just enough for sight, but never enough to brighten the room. Smoke coils from the ash end of cigars clamped in meaty hands around the room and gathers like a storm cloud against the dark, coffered ceiling. 

Low backed, leather Chesterfield sofas carve private spaces in the open room around squat mahogany tables. Most of the space is filled by men in suits with low droning colloquy, and none of them look up from their conversations to take you in. A woman in a black dress—likely a hostess of some kind—perks up at the sight of Third and Rory, and you’re quickly guided to a private room with a thick wooden door. 

They must have already reserved it, and she must have assumed they weren’t returning. 

She smiles, thin but shining, welcoming your odd company. Her hair is like wheat, light and yellow and soft; long and slicked back and swaying in time with her hips. She wears a simple black dress, which if the glance you take at the bartender says anything—he's in a black button down and slacks—this must be the dress code. A sleek, steel name tag pinned to her chest is engraved with the name Heather. Red rouge softens her cheeks, and a softer pink shade is painted on her lips. 

The private room is quieter, though soft jazz still thickens the air played through some stereo system you can’t see. Grayscale portraits hang like omens on the walls, their eyes tracking you no matter where you stand. Who they’re of you don’t know; older, likely self-important, men if you had to guess. Chocolate brown couches and armchairs float in the center of the room, tightening the space into something more intimate. 

Heather takes your order before she leaves. Cat’s eye cut Mayan Sicars and twenty year aged bourbon for the boys, the same cigar—but uncut and wrapped—and an espresso martini for you. 

“It’s a gift.” 

Third calls after her just before she disappears. Though, it’s more directed toward you and his tone suggests he’s playing along with this little ruse for now; knowing he’ll be there when you stumble with a primed ‘I told you so’ on his wicked lips. No one moves until the doors shut with a loud, heavy thunk. 

“You know Rory from work, right?” Third asks with a plop into one of the chairs, but it’s less question than it is a polite introduction. He rolls his shoulders like a general settling in for negotiations. Everyone in this room knows you know Rory; you’ve been in enough meetings with him for that much to be true. All you offer is a polite nod as you slide into the armchair opposite Third while Rory takes the leather couch that stretches between you. 

Rory is still maintaining that calm air, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, thighs spread wide, filling the space like it’s his to own. 

It’s dining with devils, like you’re welcoming evil to your table. You’re a lamb with wolves on all sides, flanking and waiting for weakness to rear its head before the strike. A cottontail caught in a quagmire. 

As they begin to chat idly, you learn three things about your mark. The first is that Rory got his position with the hotel on merit rather than pedigree. His academic accomplishments hold their own weight—sway. Second is that he’s surprisingly normal, unassuming, and utterly average. And Third—ironic, I know—doesn’t seem to like Rory nearly as much as you suspected. 

It’s not that Third says as much, doesn’t show it outright, but you know it in your tissue anyway. Like the way his smirk doesn’t curve quite right sends twitches down your muscle fibers. As much as there’s been a growing chasm between you and Third recently, the pair of you have been friends since you were toddlers; causing mischief just as long. You know him—just like you know whatever he’s doing with Rory is, in fact, not for pleasure. 

Business, it seems, was not a lie then. 

Heather’s lashes flutter with something like surprise when she comes back with the drinks and cigars only to find you all still clothed and sitting rather separately. As though she was braced for some kind of debauchery that she isn’t discovering. 

Do the regulars in this place really not wait long enough to get their drinks before indulging in revelry? 

She first places an elegantly wrapped box on the center table—royal blue with golden filigree around the edges and tied with a silken white ribbon. It’s almost too perfect where it sits like the pot of a poker game before she gently hands you your glass. 

Heather moves, bends, striking matches until the tobacco is lit for Rory and Third, and smoke begins to thicken the private space. The scent of sulphur flares first, then is overtaken by the rich aroma of burning tobacco. It blooms thick in the air as she retreats once again through that heavy door, and this time when it closes, you swear you can hear the nails driving into your coffin. 

It’s just the three of you; and for too long, it’s silent aside from the crackling singe of deeply inhaled tobacco and a sultry soft jazz tune floating as if from invisible speakers. 

“Well, I’ve never spent time with the nepo pick outside of board gatherings. What’re you even doing there other than doodling through every meeting?” 

Rory says around an exhale of smoke; his lips quirked in nearly the same teasing smirk as Third’s usually is. At about the same time, you take the first sip of your martini. Ice tinkles against the crystal of his glass when he brings the bourbon to his lips. Third answers for you. 

“It’s punishment for her lawlessness.” 

It isn’t something you hide necessarily; you’d been missing enough for the tabloids to go near bankrupt without enough slander on you to speculate about, but that doesn’t mean you want Rory to know about it. Your time in the cabin feels somehow sacred in its agony. Bittersweet and vicious. 

The way Third says it suggests this is a conversation they’d already had, as though these two discuss your movements in passing. He seems relaxed here, one foot perched on a knee, his own glass resting on the other, and his cigar held loosely between thick fingers. 

“Right, because choosing cloth napkin colors once a week is torment.” 

You say—not easing, not truly—just settling into a feigned relaxation like it’s the only thing keeping your heart beating. That long, rectangular box with your cigar in it sits impatiently on the low table, waiting like a dare. 

And you’re holding cowboys. 

“They have you working the gala? They couldn’t pay me to go to that.” 

Rory says conversationally and in a way that seems much too at ease for a tech nerd, especially one who only knows you through hearsay. It’s caught somewhere between a statement and a question, a pot sweetener. He looks the type to be socially awkward, even reclusive, and yet he sits with an air of confidence you never could have anticipated. 

“Comes with the last name. They have me sitting in with the planning committee and taking notes. You’re not going then?” 

Taking notes, which he’s already pointed out are just doodles on legal pads. 

The bitter, smooth liquor in your glass swirls with the twist of your wrist, and you keep your eyes there, watching the foam at the top roll like a wave in the wide, brimmed glass. The gala isn’t a requirement by any means—not for someone without your bloodline—but executives do usually find it in their schedule to go, and it is heavily encouraged. 

“No, I have a prior commitment.” 

You don’t miss the telling little glance Rory shoots at Third. The way they seem to lock eyes over the rims of their bourbon glasses as they take twin sips. 

Prior commitment. Funny. Something related to Tillie and the lost girls or something else entirely? You’re not sure how hard to push, how much of your hand to show. Especially when you haven’t caught him red handed despite your trailing and having your private investigators on the case. 

“Prior commitment? Graeme seems to like you well enough—for someone who isn’t a nepo pick. Skipping the gala isn’t the best look for that.” 

You dip your chin to take in a slow sip of that bitter martini. Is it a warning? Yes. No. You’re not quite threatening him, but your name is on the building and the checks he cashes. As though one toe out of line from him and you’d go crying to daddy. It’d be like he never worked there at all. 

Not quite a bluff. Not quite nuts. 

“Easy Hospitality,” Third says, either because Rory doesn’t catch the threat, or he isn’t concerned by the power you can wield against him. Like he knows some critical piece of the information that hasn’t come across your desk yet. 

A hand with a kicker. 

“Graeme trusts me because I get things done.” 

Rory doesn’t seem deterred, if he even caught the hint of threat at all—his own blood in the water. 

“Like what?” You ask almost like an investor eyeing a ledger. You’ll make him sell himself to you. If he’s going to try to corner you in this situation, try to go at you from this angle like he’s got something you should be scared of, or some black market street cred, then you’ll throw him back on the defensive and push. 

“Whatever he asks. Recently, it’s all been about that missing girl.” 

That comes out too calm, too casually, too willingly for someone responsible for nabbing them. Which leads you to believe that he isn’t. And that’s a very, very inconvenient thought to be having at the moment. 

You stifle your sharp gasp against the rim of your martini, sipping the foamy liquid while you recalculate. If he isn’t taking them, then who the hell is? If he isn’t involved, then who is responsible? 

“Tillie. He asked you what? To track her down?” You press for clarification, slowly ease onto the gas, and let the pressure build. And maybe it’s stupid to be so blunt, to sound so interested. Invested. But you are invested. The compulsion to find the missing girls has been in your driver’s seat since December, as though you’ve let go of the wheel and are kicking back in the passenger’s seat just waiting to arrive. 

“He asked me to wipe her hard drive.” 

What? Why? 

Why the hell would Graeme ask him to wipe her hard drive? 

“You mean on her work computer?” 

You ask, not because you can’t hear him and read between the lines, but because something in your head needs to hear him say it—needs to make him show his hand face up, or you won’t believe the evidence in front of you. 

“Yes. He said the publicity was bad enough and that we didn’t need any surprises.” 

Right. True, the publicity has been rather cumbersome from a business standpoint—not that you’re focused on that even in the slightest—but Graeme would be. It’s his job to be. 

Rationalize. Rationalize. Rationalize. 

“Then you’re not blocking out the rooms.” 

You say it more to yourself than to either of them. Third lifts a brow, like the lightbulb has finally gone on in his ridged grey matter and he’s finally figured out why you’ve been following them around like a lost puppy. 

“Christ, Hospitality. You think I’d do something like that?” 

The offense is clear in Third’s tone, maybe something close to hurt from one of your eldest friends, and really, you can’t blame him. Because if he’d become capable of thinking such things about you, then what were all those years of friendship for anyway. 

“It’s not—” 

You try to smooth the water, clear out the ripples and bring the waves to calm, but Rory interrupts you with words and a wave of his hand. 

“That’s why you’ve been following us then?” 

It feels like being dunked in glacier water. Like you’re taking an unplanned plunge in frigid depths. They knew. You had known that Third clocked you but Rory? That wasn’t on your radar and you rather suddenly feel like the person in the room with the worst hand. It’s a bluffcatch, and they just called you out. 

At first, you’re too shocked by the freeze to speak. Your lips fall open, then press together again as though you’re suddenly the fish out of water while they’re holding the net. How the tables do turn so quickly. 

Luck of the draw or card counting? Ghost had warned you. Third, too. 

It doesn’t really matter in the moment unless you can dig your way out. 

“I just want to know what happened to Tillie.” 

You say the truth, because what much else is there to say. You took the chance to catch them red-handed, and now, you’re the one with your pants down. Not that it isn’t a position you’ve been in before—you're just usually the one to yank down the zipper. 

Rory, who seems less taunting now and more quietly contemplative, says. 

“I could find out who’s blocking the rooms for you. In return for a favor.” 

And there it is. A rock and a hard place. A deal with the devil. 

Do you take it? If you do, are you as sleezy as him? He’s not taking the girls—that much is clear—if he was, he wouldn’t offer to help you. 

Alternatively, he could be trying to throw you off his path. 

You weigh it on scales back and forth like Themis, as though you and your espresso martini are the goddess of justice kicking back in a cigar bar, but it’s Third that makes up your mind. His reaction alone makes you derive that he’s telling the truth. Not for any reason beyond you’ve known him long enough to know when he’s lying and right now, that little wiggle in your gut is telling you that he isn’t. These last two years with Ghost have taught you to trust that instinct, like a shiny little blade you’ve been sharpening. 

“What do you want?” 

You finally—and cautiously—ask. Because it isn’t lost on you that whatever the relationship is between Third and Rory, the former doesn’t trust the latter. Not enough to trust you with whatever business is truly going on between them. But Third’s still here, and he doesn’t interject now, which means he isn’t worried about getting caught with the missing girls either. 

Because they really don’t have them. 

And whatever ‘business’ they’re conducting is something else entirely. 

“Simple,” Rory starts, swirling his glass and lifting his sunken eyes to meet yours. Ice tinkles against crystal again melting with the stereo jazz, and for a heartbeat, no one in the room seems to breathe. His gaze is like a living thing, like a viper sliding over your skin and burrowing into your eye sockets, a snake in your garden of Eden. 

It’s far from comfortable, but you’ve stared death in the face before. You didn’t flinch then, and you won’t flinch now. 

Then, after a long sip of his bourbon, Rory finishes his terms. 

“Stop following us, call off your dogs, and I’ll get you screen captures from the data warehouse. No games. Just the proof you’re after.” 

Screen shots? Not just the data, but proof. Actual, viable proof. It’s a bomb pot. A sweetening of the deal just before the winner takes the game. 

Then there’s the mention of your dogs, which just means that Rory is either more observant than you thought, or tech savvy enough to have caught your investigators with their asses out. Either way, you’re beginning to wonder if the money you’ve been paying them is worthwhile, since you seem to be the one getting all the goodies. 

It feels almost like selling your soul, like you’ll rip open your chest and let darkness consume your guts, but for a brief moment, it almost feels—thrilling. Like this one step forward into whatever dangerous, bat-shit crazy thing they’re up to shoots you up with a hit of adrenaline. Maybe this is what cops feel like when they deal with informants; trading one rotten fish for a bigger, putrid one. 

“Done.” 

Is all you say as you stand, leaving your half drank martini on the table, and swiping the gilded box with your newest gift for that godawful Scotsman. And now that you hold some real cards, you leave without fear of the wolf at your back, knowing it’s on your side against the monster you face down. 

~ 

The warehouse district in Hackney is covered in graffiti. Colors and lines, art and statement, all smashed together on brick canvases. 

You hadn’t gone home from the cigar bar, but instead came here, heading for a weapon warehouse in a seedy corner of London to get a set of throwing knives for yourself. It was bound to happen; you finally arming yourself. There’s too much going on. With Ghost being everywhere. With the girls being taken. With Rory on your tail and doing something illicit you’ve yet to discover. With all of it. 

You even get a glove like Ghost had griped about in the cabin. 

Maybe a couple concealed carry sheaths, too. 

What you hadn’t expected was to have to learn to throw them all over again. It isn’t that you’ve forgotten your lesson with Ghost. No, how could you forget it? But it’s because now, you’ve learned that his are weighted out of standard on purpose. 

To render them useless in someone else’s palms? So they can’t be used against him? 

You can’t be sure of his reasoning, but it makes sense and adds a new facet to his picture. 

What level of mistrust does a person need to have for that kind of delicate planning? And more so, what does it mean that he trusted you with that knowledge? He handed you the ability to turn his own blades against him and hoped you wouldn’t plunge them into the perfect muscles of his back. Reluctantly, sure. But he’d done it. 

Though with his track record, it’s not exactly surprising. Everything about him is basked in shadows. He hides his face—his name—conceals basics like they’re his marrow to entomb beneath muscle and bone. 

And yet he’d given you that. Something that feels far more vulnerable than any of the rest ever could. 

~ 

The blue of your gala gown is strikingly close to Soap’s eyes. Almost embarrassingly close if you were honest. You hadn’t even tried that hard and hit that mark as accurately as Ghost with his knives. 

The soft fabric clings to your hips, leaves your back exposed, drapes in a way that makes you look like a siren swathed in dripping sea water. The van Ghost and his team put you in is the type of car you roll up to an FBI stakeout in rather than the gala of the year for the circles you run in—though Soap has assured you rather teasingly that you wouldn’t be arriving in this vehicle. 

Wires and tech line the internal walls of the van on one side like something out of some cliche spy movie. The thought makes you snort. It’s not smooth looking either, like they’d thrown this set up together at the last possible moment. 

You stay quiet while ‘Gaz the gunman’ (what you’ve been referring to him as in your head after the encounter with them in Barcelona) glares at you like a grenade with the pin pulled. A threat—an explosive—in their midst and primed to blow. 

You stare at your cuticles; pretend to study the new set you just had done for this event as though you aren’t listening to them. It’s impossible not to when you’re sharing the same amount of space as an elevator with no annoying music to drown out their tactical acronyms that mean fuck all in your mind. 

It had been hard not to bite at Soap when he’d eyed your gown and said, ‘Tha’s a bonnie set o’ gear, hen’, though you had looked him straight in the face and rolled your eyes, just so he’d feel your displeasure. 

And you’ve spent the better part of the drive in this rickety hunk of metal avoiding Ghost’s gaze like it may give you some modern version of the black plague. 

Not that he’s eye fucking you. 

He isn’t. And it’s rather offensive actually. 

You thought you’d at least see heat in his eyes. Rage. Something close to jealousy when they picked you up in a gown the exact shade of his friend’s eyes; and yet he’s as much stone faced as the gargoyles on Notre Dame. 

And if your gut clenches when his gaze roves over you, quick and assessing rather than slow and unsteady, then later, you’ll just have to show him the knives you’ve got strapped to your thigh for the disappointment. 

With a huff, you take out your phone, having declined to wear a wire—and really with your open backed gown and skin on display there’s nowhere to conceal one. So, you scroll through tabloids while Soap gets wired up. 

You’re skimming an article speculating about the gala details, always playing the petulant heiress when the time calls for it, when your phone buzzes. A text. At first, you think it’s Rosie shooting you some raunchy detail about her date for tonight. Instead, it’s your private investigator’s team finally getting back to you with an answer. 

Guess they are good for something. 

Breaking into classified records you don’t know how to access being that one thing. 

You quickly lock the phone; tuck it in the clutch purse you brought that’s barely big enough to hold the device and force yourself to breathe. 

In and out. In and out. In and out. 

And holy shit. This isn’t what you expected. 

Especially not now of all fucking times. 

Your poker face shimmers, and you hold your breath to keep from screaming. For a moment, you think you may lose it entirely, then Soap speaks, breaking the thoughts racing through your mind. 

“Got that tie fer me, hen?” 

Ghost seems to grumble at that, like a territorial mutt resource guarding, though he plays it off as rough annoyance. 

“Focus, Soap.” 

Your lips press together, though you scoot closer, tie the silk with practiced fingers, because you had practiced, just so Ghost would have to watch you do this. He looks away, the mask shifting around his jaw. 

Tension. Good. Anger means you’re getting to him, especially now while his friend is smiling at you and flashing those sparkling blue eyes and flirting with every breath. Nimble fingers secure the knot, position it at Soap’s throat, and then, just because you can, you brush your hands down his chest. To feign primping, to piss Ghost off a fraction more, to poke and prod and pry until he’s boiling over as much as you are. 

You haven’t seen him eye to eye since the club. Not since he’d bullied you with pleasure and showed his possessive hand. 

And now, well now, looking in his eyes is different. Not because the heat is gone. Nor the twist in your gut. The ache that always seems to pull you into him and sink its claws in. 

No, now, you’re looking into his eyes with the answer to a long-asked question; so conveniently given when you could throw it in his face, but you don’t. That’s a card you want to save, want the space to savor it when you can watch his eyes widen. 

Nonetheless... 

Hello, Simon fucking Riley.

TAGLIST

-I get the feeling he's gonna be the one who doesn't go in for the kiss on the first date. As I've said before many times, I very much picture him as the like very classic provider/protecter type. Not because he doesn't want to but just because he's trying to be a gentleman and take it all slow. He doesn't want to focus on that in the beginning.

-But when he finally does, I picture it as very much sweet and slow. Maybe sitting out on a porch swing or on the dropped tailgate of a pickup truck watching the stars one night after a date.

-You're looking up at the sky and he's looking at you. And he finally just gives in, reaches over to gently guide you to look at him, one finger hooked under your chin.

-I think it would be exceptionally slow and controlled. More in the way of him like trying to learn you, the way your lips move. That hand on your chin would slide back to cradle your head and pull you closer, not into his lap but just closer. Little tongue flicks first against your bottom lip and then more and more bold as he goes.

-He's the kind of man who lets things simmer, lets them build, so he's going to be patient until you practically tackle him back into the bed of the truck. He'd chuckle against your lips in pure adoration and finally give in to more.

-And if things get heated in the back of that truck, then this is his land and his back road and no one is going to be coming by to spot you if you happened to get up to anything more.

-And while he may have blankets in the backseat, he didn't plan this. Surely not. Not at all. (Liar.)

-As for his go to spot to kiss you affectionately and in passing, it's definitely the crown of your head or your shoulder if you're in a tank top and that skin is exposed.

-A first kiss with Keegan I feel is going to be far more intense than the other ones I wrote (including TF141). Like a mix of what I wrote for Simon and Johnny. Like a lot of heat but less like one night stand/heat of the moment.

-I feel like it'd be more you two have been kind of dancing around each other and then there's a point where he finally just snaps and pins you against him.

-I picture it kind of like a tidal wave, building and building until that final 'fuck it' moment. Like he's coming in hot. Teeth and tongues and sloppy kisses. You two hardly even make it through the door. I def picture him as the hands in your hair type, not like pulling but you know what I mean. There's some pressure, maybe a little sting but he's domineering and using that point of contact to put you where he wants you.

-It's a whirlwind. He's dragging you through the door one moment, then you're on the floor/couch/literally just shoved against the wall and in his arms because he's waited goddamn long enough and he doesn't really have the patience to wait longer.

-Murmurs out of frustration against your lips. Things with the sentiment of 'waited long enough' and 'done holding back.'

-Not a melter really but he's going to be making you melt. He's not going to stop until you melt.

-Y'all definitely aren't making it farther than the nearest horizontal surface which may even been on the floor. Literally, whatever is closest.

-So, I'd say his 'bedtime' routine likely starts after y'all eat and maybe talk or watch something on the telly. (Most likely whatever you want to watch.)

-Then John is going outside.

-He's gonna have a whiskey. He's gonna have a cigar. He's gonna look out at the forest and ponder every decision he's made. Yeah, he'll have a gun with him, when doesn't he, but he'll just sit in the quiet.

-It relaxing, he thinks. Sitting out like this in the quiet. Listening to the sounds of the leaves in the trees and the snaps of branches under paws and hooves.

-Sometimes you go with him. Curl up in his lap or behind his back in the patio chair just to press against him. Sometimes you read a book out on the daybed he put out for you under twinkling fairy lights. Maybe sometimes you stay inside, curled up under a blanket and watching some chick flick or just reading inside because it's too cold out there.

-When he inevitably finds you slumped over in sleep and book nearly slipping from your grasp, he carries you to your shared room. Lets you lean against him like a lazy cat while you brush your teeth and do your skincare and all the things (if you haven't already which is most nights.)

-Then he helps you into your pajamas, which takes an awful long time considering the break in the middle he takes to eat you out then fuck you until you fall off the side of the mattress for activities, you're in bed, sated, and snoring. (He won't tell anyone you do and he'll deny it if you ask.)

-Once he can safely slip out of bed, he gets himself ready for bed. Brushes his teeth, washes his face, sets out his stuff for the morning.

-And back in bed, he'll drag your already sleeping form to his chest, kiss your shoulder and tuck you close, then fall asleep.

-His evening routine always starts with sending you off to relax while he cleans up the kitchen. You cooked, so he cleans.

-Then after a quick (it's not quick but you don't notice) check in to make sure you have everything you need, he slips off to the little den in the house that's just for him.

-Simon's not good at words. Not sharing them. Really, he has a lot of things to say. He just doesn't say them. He's not unfeeling or uncaring, he's just too closed off to share those things. But they need to come out, so he sits at his desk in his quiet corner of the house and writes in his journal.

-It was something one therapist suggested once years ago when he was a teen and the habit has stuck for all these years.

-So he'll write. About his day. About work. About the cat that crossed his path on his run. And more importantly, about you.

-Sometimes by the time he's done with his little self therapy, you're asleep. But sometimes, you're still awake, so he'll curl up beside you on the couch, arms crossed and griping about whatever trash you're watching on the telly. (He, like most men, loves Bridgerton. He'd shoot himself in the foot before admitting it. But he grumbles when you watch episodes without him.)

-And you're probably not escaping that couch without at least some touching. His fingers so deep in your pussy that you see stars.

-He'd drag you carry you to bed. Keep you up for hours a little longer.

-And if you're playfully bumping his hip when you both are at the bathroom vanity brushing your teeth and working through all your little nighttime routines, then he's grumbling like it's annoying, but you both know he'll be writing about how much he loves your teasing grin in his journal tomorrow evening.

-He'll cuddle but pretend he's above it, and he'll only let that soft grin out when he feels you starting to drool against his chest.

(WHY DO YOU GUYS KEEP MAKING ME WRITE THESE THINGS? WHYYYYYY?) *affectionate

-I've said it before and I'll say it again. Mans is a skincare king.

-I picture nights with Kyle very calm. Cool. He's reading some nonfiction title on the couch, sitting sideways and taking up all the room so you have to sit in his lap.

-You've got the telly on something he'd probably roll his eyes at, but you're perched in his lap with your head on his shoulder, facing away from him toward the screen while he's got his arms wrapped around you and is reading his book over your shoulder.

-And you stay like that for most of the night, though you never quite make it off the couch before the fun bits start.

-He's tease you until you were practically soaking his clothes from where you're perched on his lap and he's still gonna take the time to bookmark his page and set it aside with care just to make you wait those extra seconds.

-After he fucks you right there on the couch for an hour your activities, he'd help you clean up then take you to your bathroom to get ready for bed.

-The skincare king is setting out your whole routine for you, lining up your products, doing a mask with you while you sit on the vanity counter and laugh at whatever song he's playing from his phone and dancing around the bathroom to.

-He'll 'punish' you for laughing when he gets you back in bed anyway.

-Then it's snuggling in the sheets and soft kisses until you drift off. For some reason, my brain right now is screaming about he'd need a sound machine? Like thunderstorms or rainfall. IDK. So that's happening.

-It all starts with a workout.

-After dinner has been had and some movie or show has been watched, he's off to the little home gym he has built in your spare bedroom or garage.

-You let him go, sneak glances at his sweaty form from down then hall.

-Inevitably, you drag yourself into the gym and change whatever Metallica song he's blaring over the speakers to something bubble pop and you dance around the room with him. Does he mention that you really shouldn't still be drinking caffeine this late in the evening? No, because he's all hopped up on endorphins from his lifting and he's there dancing and singing along with you. Obviously.

-He'd gripe about the shower you make him take, citing not wanting to have sweaty sheets, but he'll drag you in with him. Clothed or not, you're getting in.

-And if he gets on his knees to eat you out then fucks you stupid against the cold tiles of the shower then it's your fault for making him get in there in the first place. Worth it for clean sheets, right?.

-When you're in the spray all warm and sated and loose limbed, he'd cradle you against his chest and wash your hair for you, big fingers working through the soaked strands, or he'd wash your skin, massaging the suds over your muscles until you're no better than a puddle in the water.

-And yeah, he's drying your skin, too.

-Then it's brushing your teeth with him barnacled to your back and one thick forearm wrapped around your middle and you threatening him and pointing your toothbrush at him through the mirror to not drool his own toothpaste on you after you just got out of the shower.

-In bed, he's the king of cuddling. Literally will not let you go. All tangled limbs and the brush of his lips until you're in dreamland.